Freefall
by Midwinter Sun
Summary: Esme's life moves in a cascade, her life sweeping from one moment to the next. She is blind to the destination. When she falls from a tree and for an angel, she is certain that she has found her journey's end. Little does she know that she is in freefall: spiraling down to despair and her eternal fate on the cliff. Sometimes destiny chooses us. This is the story of Esme Anne Platt.
1. Hope is a Deadly Poison

**Hello all! I recently decided that Carlisle/Esme is the best ship ever, and I've been wanting to do a story like this for awhile. It will be multi-chapter, but I'm not going to waste time getting to the point. Much time, anyway. In essence, this is my version of Esme's human life. It's mostly canon; I follow the same storyline.* I only add to places where Stephanie Meyer left it blank. **

**~Sun~**

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Chapter One: Hope is a Deadly Poison

_There is something satisfying about the act of working with one's hands, the feeling of the damp soil molding to your fingers. You think you are the one digging, digging into the earth, but the clay also shovels underneath your fingernails, wedges itself so thoroughly that you doubt it will ever come out. It is hot. The sun beats as harsh as a whip onto your back. Your hair sticks to your forehead. But once the soil has been tilled, ready for crops, once that seed of life has been planted, you are glad that the act of pushing through was painful. Pain is remembered better than happiness. The pride and joy that proceeds this task brands the entire act into your memory forever._

* * *

That is how I imagine it.

I have never had a need to farm, to work with my hands. I live on a so-called ranch; _I_ call it an estate. And with the embroidery, the fine paintings, and the inheritance, how could it not be an estate? This is my father's empire.

I think that is why he wanted a son. He didn't receive one. He refused to try again. Instead, he works harder, finds better deals, and hires better workers. He doesn't see the wonderful home around him. He sees the mansions. With massive halls and stables and acres for nothing but riding and pleasure and fishing and strolling. _And for letting me have private chaperones with suitors._ I shudder.

Presently, I sit by the window with my embroidery, watching the hired hands of the farm. If mother walks by, she will slap me on the hand and tell me that I need to spend less time fantasizing about things I don't need, don't want, and can't have. It is unlikely that she will find me, however. She is probably preparing for a guest or two, plotting how to climb higher up the social ladder.

Mother likes to pretend we're rich; Father likes to pretend we're poor. Mother constantly invites friends over to show off her wealth; Father encourages friends so that we can climb the social ladder and, thus, become wealthier. As they treat wealth in the opposite ways, they are almost exactly alike.

The rising sun finally falls upon me at the right angle, showering me in the sticky summer's heat. I like to think that the sun makes me pretty. My hair is light-brown, thick, and curly. It frames my face well. My eyes are a dull green. I _am _pretty. But my mother is beyond beautiful, and I am plain compared to her.

Mother rushes to open the door and I know a guest has arrived.

I look down at my half-finished embroidery. The golden threads shine in the light. I have been making the pattern myself, and I can't seem to find an idea for the angel's face. He is decidedly male, carrying a bow and arrow, clothed in armor and surrounded by clouds. Another one, an angel depicting me, stands beside him with a harp. _Soon, _I tell myself. _You just have to wait for inspiration. _I usually use my mother's face for the female angels, but I always stop when I try to make one of them a man. Sometimes I use my father, other times I make someone imaginary. Either way, I always depict their expressions with upmost care. I believe this pattern is almost complete.

The sun crawls a little higher in the sky. Mother brings a long-expected guest into the house, Mrs. Anderson, along with her daughter, Maggie. Maggie is fourteen, two years my junior, yet she appears to be older than I am.

"Good afternoon, Maggie," I tell her.

"And to you, Ms. Platt," she says stiffly. I smile in response. She keeps her eyes to the ground.

Mother leads the four of us to the sitting room. Maggie wears a grimace, Mother is curious, and Mrs. Anderson is anxious. I am a bit bored. I vaguely realize that I am still clutching my embroidery. Cautiously, I set it down.

"Oh, Mrs. Platt!" exclaims Mrs. Anderson. "You'll never believe it. Dr. and Mrs. Harris are throwing another party! Most of the town is invited."

Mother smiles. "Why should I not believe it? They throw parties almost every week." 'Dr.' Harris is not the least bit interested in his work. He was once a wonderful doctor, but now he mostly uses his title for social gain. Who am I kidding, _everyone _in this town uses their titles, friends, and children as tools for social gain. It doesn't leave much time for embroidery or painting. As soon as I think the words, my hands yearn to have the project back in my hands. I simply must finish it today. I have been working on it for too long.

"It is not the party that is important, Mrs. Platt!" Mrs. Andersen continues. "It is the _company! _There is a new bachelor in town."

Mother gasps; Maggie groans. "A new bachelor!" the former exclaims. "Mrs. Anderson, are you sure?! Is he quite fine?"

_"Quite _wealthy_ and_ quite kind. Such a compassionate young man." Blushing, Mrs. Anderson shoots a glance at her daughter, who turns an even brighter shade of red. "Also... well... _Maggie _says he is very handsome. On top of it all, he is a doctor. Staying with Dr. Harris's family at the moment."

"Will he be staying long?"

"Long enough for someone to find him a suitable bride." Mrs. Andersen giggles. "Maggie is a bit younger than him. But Helen or Ruth are just old enough. And your Esme... yes, I believe she would do quite nicely. If I had not already chosen him for Ruth." Maggie sighs, and I suddenly understand her hostility.

"Mrs. Andersen!" Mother protests. "How presumptuous. You know quite well that I have already chosen a suitable husband for her." I ball my hands into fists. "Besides which, I doubt she would be interested.

"We shall see," says Mrs. Andersen.

Maggie sighs and picks a book. I love reading, but I rarely do it. Father often discourages it. He seems a bit behind the times. His scoldings are harsh, and I avoid them as much as possible. Presently, however, Father is nowhere in sight and I can understand her need to escape our mothers. I pick my embroidery back up and begin working away at the stitching around the edges. Fuming inside, I stitch furiously. _In, out, in, out, in out._

"I'm sure Ruth can win him over. She is very outgoing... more outgoing than your Esme, for certain."

"Esme does not belong to anyone, so she is not _my _Esme, for your information, and she is not shy, only artistic. She prefers to paint and embroider and sculpt."

"A girl? Embroidering? Yes, that is proper, but they all seem so rebellious these days." It does not go unnoticed that she calls me 'girl,' not 'woman.' Mrs. Andersen peers her nose over my sewing. She is not welcome, and I glare at her. Mrs. Andersen gasps in pleasant surprise. She is impressed; I am slightly smug. "Hmm," she says haughtily. "Not bad at all. Still, Ruth's is far more impressive. And she can cook." My cheeks flame, and I know they must be bright red. My attempts at 'cooking' always end in disaster.

"But can she embroider like that? Does she weave _tapestries? _Not that I am interested in this bachelor, for certain." A tapestry? Yes, I suppose that is what I am sewing. I can hardly see the original fabric, and the picture is remarkably lifelike. Maggie and I drift onwards in pleasant silence while the two adults in the room squabble like children half my age.

"What is his name?" my mother finally asks, a few minutes later. I glance upwards; this conversation has cooled. I begin to add a halo to my angel, the female one with the harp on the other side. She is more beautiful than I am, paler, too, but is recognizably _me. _In my mind, I can see the halo growing to a larger size, an elaborate pattern rather than a simple circle. A sun, framing her face. Just like how I imagine the sun makes me look beautiful. I need to rethread the needle, however. I reach for the golden thread. _In, out, in, out, in, out..._

"I believe his name is Dr. Cullen," Mrs. Andersen says with a smile. "Dr. _Carlisle _Cullen." She feigns the accent of an Englishman. Maggie blushes harder. I sigh and re-thread the needle.

"What a lovely name."

"Very unusual." _In, out, in, out, in, out, in..._

"Almost like how 'Esme' is unusual." ..._out, in, out, in, out, in..._

Mrs. Andersen laughs. "Are you suggesting that they're 'made for each other?'"

_Snap! _I know the sound like a gun firing isn't real, but I can almost hear it as it happens. I ruined a stitch, but taking it out would cause twice the damage. Now the picture is going to be ruined. The sun isn't as beautiful as I imagined it would be. I feel my heart drop a little more.

"Mrs. Andersen, how presumptuous! Things will fall into place as they are meant to. Besides which, I already have my eye on Charles Evenson for her. He is _just _the right age, and our long-standing family tradition is finding someone for our daughters with the Evenson's and the Campbell's. Ruth and Helen can argue over this... _Dr. _Cullen. But my daughter knows what's best for her. Isn't that right, Esme?"

The anger subsides and all that is left is despair. "Yes, Mother. Charles is wonderful." I give a fake smile. "Very handsome, and quite an inheritance."

Mother shoots me a glare. _Lie better next time, _her eyes tell me. I swallow, disappointedly tracing my finger along the run in the fabric.

"When is the party? Will there be dancing?"

"Of _course _there will be dancing!" Mrs. Andersen exclaims. She chuckles. "I hope Ruth will practice."

Mother laughs, and I can't help but join in, considering what happened last time.

"Does Esme know any dancing?" asks Mrs. Andersen.

"A bit, yes. She knows _enough _dancing." She glances at me. "I just don't think she likes it."

"That's a step ahead of Ruth and I." Mother looks confused an Mrs. Andersen grins. "Did I ever tell you about the time that I 'danced' into a table?... my partner was Ashley." I glance up, recognizing the name.

"Oh my," Mother says expectantly, a sly smile on her face.

"Neither of us knew, we weren't looking up. We didn't see that the other person was looking down. I'm not sure who was leading who. It was a very simple dance, but we kept moving backwards. Farther, and farther, and farther, and farther... I didn't realize that there was a refreshment table, and our eyes were on the ground. Finally he looked up and lifted his hand to let me twirl around..."

"No!" Mother gasps.

"And he opened his mouth to warn me, but I was still looking at the ground. He tried to stop me, but my foot caught on my dress and as I twirled... I fell backwards into a steaming hot bowl of soup!" I do not laugh like Mother and Maggie; I am too annoyed with Mrs. Andersen.

"At least you didn't fall out a window," Mother says in between giggles.

"Oh, no, that was the next party," she says wryly.

"Oh, really?"

"I was backed up against the window when I slipped. I think my dress caught onto my shoe. Oh, no, there was something slippery on the floor. Soup! Yes, it was soup, I had spilled it earlier!"

"I hope you didn't spill it while dancing..."

"No, no! Nothing like that. I made someone else spill it by dancing into _them._ And I was even worse than Ruth. I was floundering in the air, grappling for anything to hang onto... and I brought my dancing partner with me!"

"You didn't!"

_"Oh, _yes I did. And did I ever tell you about—" Mother and I can tell that she is about to go on another rant about something irrelevant.

"You never answered my question, Mrs. Andersen," Mother interjects.

"Oh?" She scratches her head.

"When is the party?"

"Tomorrow night." A grin spreads across her face. "Dr. Cullen is going to be there."

"Yes," Maggie snaps. "I _think _we would have gathered _that _by now, _mother."_

"Watch your tongue, Maggie," Mrs. Andersen chides. "I believe that the rest of the town is invited."

"Is it? That's wonderful... but I believe you have already mentioned that."

"Oh. I have? Yes, I have. I do that often. Did I ever tell you about—"

"At the Harris Estate?" Mother questions, interrupting. I have no desire to be subjected to another few hours of Mrs. Andersen's speeches about her life. I know Mother doesn't, either. Somehow, though, she manages to make it sound hospitable.

"As usual." Mrs. Andersen beams. "It ought to be a nice social gathering. And, if you want, I could introduce you to a few of Dr. Harris's friends..."

Mother gasps. I roll my eyes again, this time in a downwards direction to avoid being noticed. "Will your husband introduce _my _husband?"

"Yes, of course! I'll talk to him about it."

"That should definitely help our connections. Nothing makes good friends like good beer and wine." She's talking about the men, of course.

"Agreed."

* * *

Mrs. Andersen leaves with Maggie about an hour later. I go to my room and pick up a random book — _The Secret Garden. A Christmas Carol _lies half-open on my bed. I had just been rereading it when Mother caught me and told me that it was time to leave my room. _The Secret Garden _was only recently published in its entirety. I have only just started it. I open it to "Mary, Mary, Quite Contrary," and begin to read.

I try to focus on the words, but I feel ill. My head is spinning with a thousand thoughts, a thousand questions. I always try to prepare myself for disappointment. Once I hope that Mother will consider another husband or even suitor for me, I cannot stop hoping. Hope is poisonous. It plants a seed deep inside of my heart. When I try to bury it, the seed blossoms. It is too difficult, too tiring for my wishing to be fruitless. It is better to have unplanted soil than is to have a withered crop.

Perhaps, _perhaps _I can win over this total stranger. It would save me from the... off feeling I have when I am around Charles Evenson. He is too withdrawn, too... reserved. It isn't that he doesn't speak, it's that he knows how to dodge questions, how to leave no impression whatsoever. I have known him since I was a child and yet I do not know anything about him. Mother wishes for me to continue focusing my attention on Charles. She'll want me to dance with him. But if I can sway Dr. Cullen at the party, and if he is as impressive as Maggie and Mrs. Andersen seem to think he is, surely my mother will reconsider my "perfect" match with Charles.

I neither need nor want her to find another "suitable pairing," I only want her to reconsider. I don't even want a husband.

Maybe, just maybe, I could be free.

* * *

***In case you're wondering what I've somewhat changed/added to in the storyline: the story stems from the fact Stephanie Meyer never explicitly said that Esme never met Carlisle ****_before _****she fell out of the tree. She also never explicitly stated how long Carlisle treated her. I have also added my own plots and subplots that weave into the big picture.**

**Thank you for reading. I promise I'll update soon. Please take a moment review, and feel free to point out any glaring grammar mistakes. That aren't style choices, like this fragment. Thank you again! **

**~Sun~**


	2. To Wish is to Dance

**Hello again! I know I might be updating a little too soon, but I was so excited that I just decided to go ahead and post it. Thank you again to all of my previous reviewers. I ask that you consider writing another one at the end of this chapter. Thank you!**

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2. To Wish is to Dance

_Wishing is like dancing. It is a blind leap of faith, sometimes in something you do not actually believe in. Wishing isn't confined to reality like hoping, it can be anything you wish for it to be. One wrong step, however, and you shall fall. Do you trust your wish, your partner? But once the dance begins and your heart begins to sing, you find yourself trusting. Trusting your partner to catch you when you fall, trusting yourself to judge the steps correctly. You cannot stop wishing, not while the music of your heart and soul warbles onwards. Because no matter how much you love and trust your wish, one wrong step shall destroy you._

* * *

Spinning like a silly girl, the silk dress pressed against my chest billows out around me, unrestrained. It is a lovely shade of green, it brings out my eyes. It is as modest as I like it, while it still makes me beautiful in all of the right places.

She made this dress for Charles Evenson, not for me. Still, Mother may be made this for the wrong reasons, but it is still the right thing. And she means well. She truly does. For how could an uncaring mother sew such a beautiful dress for me? It makes my own sewing feel inadequate.

Picking up my embroidery and finishing work on the angel's sword, I steal a glance at the clock. We must leave for the party in a few minutes. I love dancing, yet I rarely do; this puts most people on the false assumption that I hate it. Truthfully, I seldom dance because I do not like having my feet stepped on or being pressed against the chest of a man. They always hold me too closely for my liking. I especially do not like their hands on my shoulder-blade.

And I hate dancing with Charles. Is my hatred of him warranted? No, not at all. But that doesn't mean that it will disappear. While I begin donning my dress, I try to convince myself that I should continue loathing him. I hate the way his lips curl upwards into a smile and his sparkling eyes crinkle on the edges. I hate the way he talks so kindly, so modestly turns down speaking about himself. I hate the way he politely does anything that I ask him to do.

"Esme!" Mother's voice. "It's time to leave."

I can't resist the urge to slide _Pride and Prejudice _and my embroidery into my handbag as I finish putting on the dress. In front of the mirror, I spin around and make sure it fits for the thousandth time. The dress is gorgeous. It makes me feel beautiful.

I rush out of my room to meet my parents. "You look lovely, Esme," Father tells me tensely. "So grown up."

"Thank you," I answer, too quickly. I glance down at my dress. "And Mother, it's just—" _perfect._

"Don't say another word," she interjects. "It was nothing."

"How long have you been working on this one?"

"Don't look a gift horse in the mouth, Esme." She smiles wryly. "I bought the fabric at Christmas, and I've been looking for the perfect pattern ever since."

_"Thank _you," I tell her, stunned. "It... it really means a lot to me."

Mother's smile widens. "I'm sure you wish to show your new dress to the rest of the town. Shall we?"

Once outside, I shiver. It is already frigid. Last harvest season, I believe it was quite a bit warmer. Yes, it was. I enjoyed Thanksgiving day outdoors with a few of my cousins. We will be celebrating the same holiday in a week, but we will likely be indoors by the fireplace instead.

We crawl into the new automobile, Father at the steering wheel. He presses the gas and we lurch into action. It bumps and it rumbles along clumsily over the rocky path. Dr. Harris lives quite far from here. I glance to the sky. It's going to storm soon, I believe. I shouldn'tworry about it. This is the new model. With the roof over us, we should be fine.

I slide my book out of the handbag. Mother steals a glance at me and holds back a laugh. Yes, she shouldhave known that I would bring a book. I may as well chain myself to a bookcase. I am already prisoner. The words jump up and down as we do, traveling slowly along the road. When I glance up, the sky looks as though it is about to burst. The muffled sounds of the road disappear as I am lost to the words.

* * *

"Esme, put that book away, we're almost there," Mother informs me.

"We are?" I glance upwards. Yes, we will be at Dr. Harris's home in a few minutes. I fold the book and place it in my handbag, leaving Elizabeth and Mr. Darcy behind in the pages. The sun has sunk low into the sky now. It will set in a few minutes.

There is always something exciting about going to see Dr. Harris. Their parties are filled with strangers, friends, and _strange_rs. Maggie will be there; we could discuss our books. It seems to be the only thing we have in common, but it is enough. Reading makes up the majority of her personality; she usually is quite easy to talk to. When she wishes to talk, that is. Otherwise, she is close-mouthed and almost hostile.

The estate is massive. The landscape itself surpasses any other sight I have ever seen, empyrean in its verdancy and vastness. The mansion is the cornerstone, however, its stone walls and fountains demanding the eye's attention, its ornate features more appropriate on a cathedral. Something about it is daunting, yet still feminine, as its beauty beckons visitors forward and its gates warn intruders of imminent danger. Its windows arch upwards into a sharp point, stretching towards the sky. It is four floors at its highest, in the center of the place, and one at its lowest, at the very edge. It is of a great breadth, both in size and in demonstration of architectural prestige. In the light preceding twilight, it gleams with a golden shimmer. The estate is of the type that makes little girls pause in their dreams of being a princess; upon seeing Birchwell Estate, a castle is no longer the residence of their ultimate fantasies.

Of course, I have come to this place before, but, in the moment I see it, I can only pause and stare. The estate might not be out of place in England or somewhere else in Europe, but here, in a small town with no recognition at all, it is as surprising as a diamond in a vat of manure. A jewel, and a rare one at that. I am glad that Dr. Harris enjoys parties.

The gates are ajar; people flood down the winding path and into the mansion. Father stops the car just before we enter, as he must not wish to hit anyone, and I step out onto the ground. Making sure that my books are secure in my handbag, I stroll past the gates, both posts guarded by proud, brass lions.

Making my way to the front steps takes longer than I expect. It is easy to envision the house as closer to me because of its size. I am always surprised when it comes closer, seeming to grow into something more massive than it already is. Entering the Birchwell is a ceremonial.

When I first lay eyes on the place, I doubted that inside could be impressive at all, after seeing the exterior. Once inside, the outside is merely a preface of a novel, an overture of a symphony. The grand arch of the front door swells and multiplies into arches that continue downwards, down the hallway. It is a magnificent, stately home. It overwhelms all of the senses. It is far too easy to lose myself in this place.

Mother is behind me to keep me from losing my footing. Father is even farther behind, likely speaking with friends. I shake my head, clearing it of unwelcome thoughts.

We take the doors to the left, leading to a slightly more modest part of the house. This is where Dr. Harris hosts the parties. He _requests _that we do not wander off; it is very easy to get lost in the corridors, and it is understood that he and his wife wish for something akin to privacy. Most of his guests abide without question. I have never disobeyed him, exactly, I only ask him if I could wander the halls to escape everyone. He says yes, so long as I don't break anything.

The party room is crowded, so I can barely hear or see anyone over the din of people socializing. I wander for a few minutes, unsure of what to do. There is no way I can read in here, and the dancing hasn't begun yet.

"Esme!" The voice belongs to Florence. I whirl around to see her. She looks every bit as flustered as I am.

"Florence!" I exclaim upon seeing her. "Your mother, she actually let you—"

She smiles mischievously, looking down at the blue dress that she has always wanted to wear. "I know. It's amazing, isn't it?" Florence spins around so that I can see it entirely. The act of it blows a few strands of hair into her face, which she promptly wipes out of her face. She sighs. "I just wish that we didn't have to do any dancing."

"We don't _need _to do dancing, Florence."

"Yes, but... you know how my mother is."

"And you know how _my _mother is."

"Well... she was very insistent. She really wants... wants me to seek out Dr. Cullen."

I roll my eyes and sigh. "Is _everyone _talking about him? Why is he so special? He's just another bachelor."

"All the girls are talking about him. Or they were. Yesterday... he only got here two days ago, and he's rich. But, honestly, I don't think he's interested. It'll die down soon. It really will... I hope. Have you _seen _him?"

"No," I say quickly, then repeat it. It comes out as a question. "No? I don't know. There's a lot of people here, I'm not going to know which one he is."

She giggles. "Of _course _you'd know which one _he _is. I'm perfectly happy with Jared, of course. But... he's... rich. Everyone likes money in this town. On a completely unrelated note, do _you _want to dance?"

I glance around the dance floor. The chatter seems to be dying down, and I can tell that the dancing will start soon. "Not really. Should we go wandering?"

"That's always entertaining. I'll go ask my parents."

"I'll go with you." I follow Florence to her parents and younger siblings. Anna, Jacob, and Ralph. Anna is the youngest, only five years old. She has an adventurous spirit. I hope her stiff and formal mother doesn't stifle her. Jacob and Ralph are tame compared to Anna, which is a miracle.

"Florence! Esme!" Mrs. Murphy exclaims with disgustingly fake exuberance. "Where have you been?" The second comment is more snippy, more true to who Mrs. Murphy actually is. "You _know _I don't like you going anywhere without first having _my _permission! And you _said _you would behave yourself at this party! How _dare _you betray my trust! I _thought _I could trust you, thought that you were mature enough to handle something like this. And... my _dear, _is that dirt on your chin?"

Florence blushes and stammers out, "I haven't been outside..."

"Did a boy kiss you? _That _would certainly explain the dirt. I'll have to make sure Jared's mother knows about this..."

"No, really, Mother, I haven't been anywhere. I probably just didn't wash up well enough."

"But you said you haven't been outside, so _what _is it? And, if it is dirt, why is it reddish-pink? There's a reddish-pink dot on your chin!" _Oh._ Really? That's what she's talking about? "Come here, come here! Let me see what type of dirt it is!" Mrs. Murphy touches the "dot" with her index finger and then sticks that same finger into her mouth.

Mr. Murphy's eyes widen. He shuffles away awkwardly. "No comment," I hear him mutter. Jacob and Ralph follow their father. Anna tries to leave, but Mrs. Murphy catches her and slaps her on the wrist.

"Where _have _you been, Florence?"

"I... I was just talking with Esme. W-we were w-wondering if y-you would let us go wandering? Around the house? Neither of us wishes to dance."

"My dear!" says Mrs. Murphy, aghast. "Of course you may not! How presumptuous of you to think anything of the sort! Perhaps later. I expect both of you to do at least _ten _dances. I'll be upstairs, watching. You had _better_ do as I ask this time, Florence. Otherwise there _will _be consequences."

"But—"

"Not buts."

"— I _hate _dancing. You _know _I hate dancing, don't make me embarrass myself—"

"Well, hurry along, you two," Mrs. Murphy ushers. I back away from her slowly, a thousand awful things to tell her scurrying through my head. The woman is insane. I glare at her before turning away. She gasps, but I ignore her. Some people are simply not worth my time, and I don't care how many years older they are.

Reluctantly, Florence and I trek to the dance floor. "Let's get this over with," she mutters. I see Jared, her suitor, find her in the crowd. He approaches quickly, and with a smile. I've always liked him, and I think I fancy him. At least more than I fancy Charles Evenson. _Your heart races when you're around him. Maybe you like him more than you think you do. _Or maybe I'm afraid.

"Dancing can't be that bad, can it?" Jared whispers, so softly I doubt I was meant to hear it.

"Not while I'm with you," Florence says back, then blushes. A wild, delusional look leaps from one of them to the other, thick in the air, as he brings his hand to hers, as she puts her hand on his shoulder, as he puts his hand on hers. The music begins, a few men in the corner playing their instruments. I linger on the fringes; I have no one to dance with. Crestfallen, I sigh.

Through the spaces in the crowd, I see a single lonely figure. His hair is a light gold, and it is apparent that he is both slender and muscular. He is pale, as white as bone, as though he has never touched the sun. He gazes in a distant direction, and then his gaze collides with mine.

* * *

**... and, yes. She meets Carlisle for the first time next chapter. I can't wait, either. :)**

**A review would make my day. And encourage me to write faster... remember, you do ****_not_**** need to sign in and you don't even need an account.**

**Until next time,**

**~Sky~**


	3. To Dance is to Fly

**This chapter has been finished since forever, but I've been afraid to upload it for some reason. Huh. I probably should have put it up sooner. I was trying to finish the chapter where Esme breaks her leg before I put this up, but then I got carried away, and... and I don't really have an excuse, but here we go. Thank you to everyone who reviewed, by the way.**

**Geronimo! (Ten points to whoever gets that reference.)**

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To Dance is to Fly

_The background music fades into the distance, replaced by the throbbing of my heart in my ears. His gleaming eyes, the color of light itself, watch me intently, with curiosity. The silhouettes of people dance past him, but his captivating stare neither falters nor wavers. Everything else swirls, and I do not know if it is the dancers and their billowing dresses or simply my imagination, swooning at merely seeing him. But I cannot keep my eyes from wandering the perfection that is his face. He is so beautiful that I understand why he has never touched the light. He does not need to. He may as well be the sun itself. He smiles slightly, his lingering gaze darkening to something daunting, as if he is daring me to march forwards, to ask him for a dance. I think his fingers twitch, though I am not sure, as if he is about to hold out his hand. I begin wondering, fantasizing, and—_

* * *

"Ms. Platt!" Charles's voice calls from behind me. I feel a hand on my back. I whirl around to face him, and he smiles. "Would you like to dance?" I glance back at my stranger. He turns away, takes another woman's hand.

"Yes, Mr. Evenson." He used my title, I use his. I smile at him. "I believe I would."

His hand grips mine and he pulls me close. The heat in here is already insufferable. His presence makes it worse. I can smell the alcohol on his breath; has he been drinking? We sway back and forth to the music. It is really too slow for the jerky movements he makes. He isn't the best dancer, but he doesn't step on my feet and I trust him. He lifts up my hand to twirl me around. His too-tight grip makes it difficult. I grimace, again glancing towards the stranger. He is dancing with another girl, Helen. _Helen. _Cursing Mrs. Andersen, I return my attention to Charles.

"Are you alright, Esme?" he asks me, sounding genuinely concerned. He whirls me around into a cradle. His elbow is in the wrong position. One of his arms jabs into my ribs while the other one constricts my breathing.

"Yes Charles, I'm—" He swings me out of it. "Fine. Just a bit tired, that's all."

"Perhaps it's the dancing?"

I laugh. "We've barely started!"

"Yes, well..." He shakes his head at himself. "How was your day?"

"I did a lot of reading. I just finished _The Secr—"_

"Pleasant then?" Charles asks, cutting me off.

"Yes. Very pleasant." He twirls me again, and this time I cry out as he twists my wrist.

"Oh." He says. "Sorry." It sounds hurried, not genuine.

I take notice of the surroundings again, and we have made a full circle around the dance floor. The stranger has his back to me, but he is only a few couples away. Charles begins on one of his ramblings, but I am listening to a different conversation. I only pick out a few words. Helen sounds nervous. I don't blame her at all.

"Are you even listening to me?" Charles demands.

"I'm sorry, not really," I admit. He utters something inaudible.

"It's fine, I suppose." He sighs and drops my hand. "If you didn't want to dance, you should have just told me."

"I'm sorr—"

He throws his hands up. "If you didn't want to dance, you should have just told me. Next time, be honest." He turns on his heel and walks away. Flustered, I sigh and storm in the opposite direction. The music stops; some wander to find a new partner. I see the stranger bid goodbye to Helen. He throws a quick glare in the direction of Charles, and then smiles at me, softly and warmly as a summer's breeze.

Paul waves me over to him. We exchange idle chatter until he asks for a dance. The music begins again, and I do not yet have a partner. I take hold of his hand. "Gladly," I reply. We dance for a song, and then I bid him goodbye. The next time I am not as lucky; I actively seek out a partner. The stranger is in the corner, already with another woman. I sigh, finding someone else. Ralph, or something like that. I nod along to his comments as we dance, both the music and the movement bland.

"Esme!" It is the old doctor, Dr. Harris, calling out to me. I can tell by the thick English accent that clings to him with ferocity and refuses to fade, even after decades.

Dr. Harris is a tall man, or at least he must have been in his younger years. He is almost a head taller than my father, even with his growing hump in his back. His snow-white hair is almost like a lion's mane, and is healthier than I would expect. Even from here, I can see that it is glossier than that of most men his age. A short, bristly beard sprouts from his chin, and his face is tinted red. He has an aura of happiness about him. When I am in the same room with him, I cannot help but believe that it is real. But after we separate, I am forced to question whether or not it is genuine or if he uses it to make friends.

"My dear, it has been too long." My own grandfather died when I was very young. Since then, Dr. Harris was somewhat of a replacement for me. He spoiled me in the days when I visited more often. It is his passion for books that kindled my own, and for that I will always be grateful. He takes my hand in both of his and hunches over to shake it. He smiles, his vivid turquoise eyes gleaming and slightly bloodshot, as though he has been crying.

"Yes," I agree. "It has." He nods before pulling me into an awkward side-hug.

"Been staying healthy then, have you?" he jokes.

"'An apple a day keeps the doctor away,'" I tell him in response. It comes out with an almost laugh as I try to smile back at him.

"Well, then, you ought to stay away from apples." He pulls away from me, but he keeps his arm around my shoulders. "I deem them unhealthy for you." The heat of his hand and the crowd is sweltering.

"Um... thank... you?"

He laughs heartily. His grip tightens. Dr. Harris begins walking and I have no choice but to follow him. "I must admit though, Esme, I was a little surprised to see you here."

"Is surprise a bad thing?" I ask

"No, no, of course not." He beams. "But surprise has a bare definition, it should exude another word."

"'Exude another word?'"

"At the very least, there needs to be another word. One that combines 'surprise' and something else."

"And what would that be, Dr. Harris?"

"Curiosity."

I can tell that he wants me to congratulate him on being so _profound. _"Ah," I reply instead. "I can see that, now."

"It is impossible to be surprised without having some healthy measure of curiosity."

"You seem a bit preoccupied with healthiness."

"I am a doctor, aren't I?"

"And when was the last time you lay hands on a patient?"

"I don't know. '91, I do believe." He sighs. "Has it really been twenty years? It really has been too long. Medicine has advanced so much since then. Dr. Cullen has been telling me about it."

"Dr. Cullen?.." I pretend not to recognize the name. "Ah. Hasn't he been staying with you?" I question. I feel a rush of heat in my cheeks. I hope it is the movement and the balmy, summer-like air of the room.

Dr. Harris leans his head from side to side, as if the inquiry is far more complicated than it actually is. "Yes, he has, actually. He is an old friend of mine." He grimaces, but covers it quickly. "The doctor is an... _unusual _young man."

"Unusual?" I demand, too harshly. "Unusual how?"

"Mm. No matter." Dr. Harris shakes his head as though it's no big deal.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see the stranger marching towards us. He is stealthy, as though he doesn't wish for anyone to see him. The crowd seems to part as he walks by, as though he is an unstoppable force of nature.

Dr. Harris also takes notice of this. "And Dr. Cullen!" he exclaims upon seeing the stranger. "This is my... well, for intents and purposes, this is my granddaughter, Esme Platt." _This _is _Dr. Cullen? _He is too young to be a doctor, _far _too young to be an 'old friend' of Dr, Harris, too beautiful to be unmarried. _He is unmarried. _The sound of my heartbeat masks the loud throbbing of the music.

Dr. Cullen's hand caresses mine in a firm handshake. His fingers are ice cold. In the heat of the crowded room, it is not an unpleasant feeling. I dread the moment when he lets go. "It is a pleasure to meet you, D-Dr. Cullen." I half-stutter the words. Embarrassed, my cheeks flame into what must be an even brighter red. The hateful sultriness contrasts greatly with his hands.

"As it is a pleasure to meet you, Ms. Platt." His accent is the same as Dr. Harris's, but far gentler. There is a different type of warmth in his voice, one that is velvety and completely welcome. It is mesmerizing.

"Please," I half-laugh, out of breath. "Call me Esme." I breathe heavily, feeling as though I am being strangled.

"Then I suppose you must call me Carlisle."

"Carlisle." Carlisle finally releases my hand, and it drops to my side, limp. The heat rushes down my arms and all the way to my fingers. I brush the beading sweat off of my brow as the long-ignored music flourishes once before coming to a close. A silence lingers furiously between us, daring me to speak again.

"Ah!" Dr. Harris exclaims suddenly, interrupting the moment. "Margret! And Gus! It has been far, far too long!" He marches in the direction of an aging couple, and pulls the two of them into an awkward hug, leaving Carlisle and I alone.

Breathing heavily, I consider leaving. My feet feel as heavy as lead, and I know that I could not move from this spot, not even if I wanted to. Our gazes collide again and he has me entranced.

"Would you care for a dance?" The world halts. Or maybe it swirls beyond all control and comprehension. His voice enthralls me more against the hush. There is a musical quality to it that it lacked while contrasted against instruments. I am frozen for a moment, stunned into complete wordlessness. Somewhere, in the vast, irrelevant distance, I hear Florence gasp. No, she cannot be far— only a few steps away on the dance floor.

"Yes, of course, Dr. Cullen."

"Carlisle," he corrects.

"Carlisle," I acknowledge. "I'm sorry."

"There is no need to apologize, Esme." I love the way he says my name. _Es-me. _My heart skips a beat to pound to the rhythm of it.

"But... there's no music."

"Not yet."

For a moment, I fumble to find his hand. It comes across poorly, far too eagerly. Calmly, he slips his hand into mine, laces his icy fingers through mine. The action sends a chill through me. "I'm sorry," he says. "My hands are cold." He releases me, but my own hand clings so tightly to his that neither of them fall.

"No, no," I reassure him. _As if _he _needs reassurance. _"It's hot in here, it's fine."

"Alright..." He pauses, bringing his hand to my shoulder-blade. I put my own arm on his shoulder. The grip is tight, steady. I can tell before we have even started that he is an experienced dancer. The music begins suddenly. I've done it many times before.

"One... two... three... four." On the fourth beat, we begin.

My first impression was correct; he is an excellent dancer. He makes it easy to sway to the music. He guides me but doesn't control me. As the song wears on, his hand begins to feel less like ice and more like heated flames licking at my skin. It is a strangely pleasant type of fire. The air between us hums expectantly as my eyes meet his and linger there.

He chuckles, softly."You're an excellent dancer," he compliments. I find no humor in my dancing.

"Thank you." I laugh, too. _If I laugh when I'm nervous, perhaps he was only doing the same? _"You are absolutely incredible. You're the only reason I don't look as clumsy as a fish out of water."

"I don't think you're clumsy at all. It just—" He lifts his hand and twirls me around. "— takes practice." He catches

"In that case, you've probably been practicing for centuries."

Carlisle laughs again, this time sincerely amused. He glances up to the ceiling, smiling. His gaze falls on me again, and, in that blinding moment, all I can do is stare. "Why, Esme you're too easily impressed."

My heart skipped a beat and thumped almost loudly enough for me to hear it, because, for a moment, I thought he said _my Esme._ "There's nothing about you that isn't impressive," I tell him. "I think we need to invent a whole new word for you. _Impress_ isn't strong enough, and _prestige _has the wrong connotation. So let's make a new word. _Imprestige. _Yes, I believe that will do nicely."

He smiles, face glowing like the sun. "That should be in the dictionary," he replies.

"I wonder why it isn't," I reply quietly. I straighten myself. I mustn't trip over myself trying to impress him. "The definition should be _Dr. Carlisle Cullen." _My tone is light, open, and it sounds as though I am joking... but I am not. I have never met anyone like him.

"In that case, I think we ought to invent a word for you. But I should need something to go on. Tell me about yourself, Esme." He sounds genuinely interested, unlike the scalers of the social mountain. Then again, he has no need to summit our pyramid. He is a guest, a bachelor at that; he already belongs at the top.

"There isn't much to tell," I whisper darkly, before relaxing a bit. There is actually a great deal to tell; how much of it I am willing to share, however, is a different matter entirely. "Ask me a question."

"Let's start with the basics…" His face becomes quite serious. "What is your favorite color?"

I laugh at that. The sound shakes almost as much as my hands would, were his grip a little less comforting. "Emerald. I believe that's where my name comes from, actually."

"Ah. Yes, French. _La esmeralda, _the emerald. But I do believe that _esmé _comes from _esmer, _medieval French_. _It means _esteemed _or _loved, _and has nothing to do with _la esmeralda."_ Carlisle pauses. "Is that why you love the color?"

"No, not at all. I... I suppose I like it because it complements my eyes. That's why my mother made the dress in this color... and it does come from _esmeralda. _My name, I mean. My eyes were that color when I was born. _Esteemed _and _loved _are just an added bonus. Although I do not believe I am either of them." I did intend to add the last bit.

There is a silence. Carlisle must have noted it. "It's a lovely dress," he says, changing the subject.

"Thank you."

"Is your mother French?"

I chuckle. _Absolutely not. _"No. She had been reading Victor Hugo at the time, she doesn't breathe a word of French. She didn't want to draw _too _much attention to me, so she shortened the name... do you think the word has a root there?"

"What?"

_"Esmeralda. _It can't be a coincidence that it has the word _esteemed _in there. Does it mean 'esteemed stone?'"

"No... no, I don't believe so. _Alda _does not mean 'stone.' But, then again, my knowledge of medieval French is limited."

"Do you speak French?"

"Um, yes," he replies, as though he is trying not to be impressive and failing miserably.

"Do you speak any other languages?"

"English." I tilt my head to the side, prompting more. "I also speak Italian, Spanish, Latin, and Greek... Russian... and..." he trails off.

"All fluently?" I gasp.

He laughs.

"That isn't an answer."

"My father was... a very harsh man. I learned Latin and Greek in my childhood. French, Italian, and Spanish are all very similar. They were easy to learn. Russian was my only real challenge."

"How on Earth do you do it? Do you do _anything _except study?"

"I... have a very sharp memory. And I spent the..." He sighs. "... early days of this life traveling."

"It sounds as though your father was a difficult man."

"You have no idea." The music finishes with a brief, blossoming flourish.

He drops my hand and lowers his other arm from my shoulder. The space between us growls furiously, and I ache to dance with him again. "... do you not wish for another dance?" I ask, dismayed.

Carlisle's gaze falls to the floor, though he looks back at me and brightens quickly.

"No, no... if you don't want to..."

"It's not that at all!" he promises. "Of course I would like to dance again."

"Then why do you look so sad?"

He pauses for a long time. Finally, he says, "Because I haven't thought of a word for you. Not yet."

"Oh." I smile, rolling my eyes. "I thought you didn't enjoy dancing."

The pull, almost magnetic, isn't relieved when he takes me back into a position for dancing. I want him to pull me closer, against his chest. His eyes are gleaming, yet somehow dark. They dare me to do something bold. Shall I kiss him? No, no, of course not. Not while everyone is watching. The thought itself embarrasses me.

"Alright, everyone!" Dr. Harris announces over the chatter. "This is a new song, and a new dance. If you don't know, just watch everyone else; it should be easy. If you know it, be sure to come and dance!" I see him signal to the band to begin their music.

It begins with an angry flourish that reminds me of a fire's first spark. The cello opens the song, and the violin comes in shortly afterwards, carrying on the melody. It leaps like flickering flames, and the song is the very definition of the tension that lingers tangibly between Carlisle and I. For a moment, I am frozen, wondering how any composer could so flawlessly translate an emotion into wordless noise. The panic sets in when I realize that I have never heard the song before. If I had, it would surely be familiar; I could not forget something so marvelous. Carlisle sighs, recognizing the tune. I almost hear the air between us hiss like live wood succumbing to fire. No longer as cold as ice, he slides his hand down my back and towards my hip. It feels like flames at my skin, and I gasp, horrifyingly eager. I breathe a sigh of relief when he stops at my waist. "I..."

"Is something wrong?" he questions.

Glancing around frantically at the already dancing couples, I realize, "I don't know this dance." My voice quivers.

"It's alright. I'll show you. It's easy. Just don't let me step on your feet." The couples are moving in a counter-clockwise circle. My cheeks flame when I realize that we are in the wrong position. "Don't... don't worry." His voice shakes just as mine does, perhaps more. He tugs me closer. My breathing speeds up rapidly, and I can feel my heart threatening to leap out of my chest. He pulls back a little, and adjusts me to where I am slightly to the side of him. His palm flattens against mine.

"How—"

"Keep your weight on the balls of your feet," he says quietly. "And look over your right shoulder."

"O-okay." I acknowledge.

"Take a step backwards with your right foot on the beat. Take another with your left foot. One more with your right, and then step to the left. Ready?" Carlisle asks me.

"I'm ready." He straightens himself, and I do the same. Then he steps forwards on his left foot and I yank my right one back. Then on my left, then on my right. I step to the side at the wrong moment and nearly fall over. "Sorry!" I exclaim after a few more failed steps.

"It's alright, it isn't easy to begin with." We start again, this time with a new determination.

I still stumble more than I would like, contrasting greatly with his flawless, graceful movements. Slowly, he navigates us around the dance floor. Each time, we move a little closer towards the outer circle. Just when I think I have it, I trip again, but he catches me. It takes several more times of practicing until I think I have the basic completely. Finally we are moving more quickly, almost as fast as the most advanced people on the dance floor. It feels... natural, somehow. Not the dance itself, but dancing with him. "Are you ready?" Carlisle asks.

"For what?"

"Instead of taking the quick, sideways step, you're going to turn. Turn _away _from me." We finish the basic with the quick step and I stumble, nervous. "I'm going to put my hand on your lower waist to turn you." We finish again. "Don't be alarmed."

"It's okay," I promise, giving him a breathless smile. "I trust you." And I do. Stupid, perhaps, but I trust this magnificent stranger. This makes him smile.

Carlisle launches me into a twirl on the flourish of the beat, and then we begin the basic step again. He smiles. "There. Perfect. Two more basics, and then another turn."

"Okay," I answer, chuckling nervously. _One, two, three-and-four. One, two, three-and-four. One, two-three-and_-twirl. This time I feel more graceful, more confident with myself. We practice it twice more. I stand completely on the balls of my feet, balancing as best I can, and it helps me to spin more easily.

Afterwards, I feel stronger. The basic step is easy, and the occasional twirl is exciting. We wander the dance floor, every step a new adventure. As we move, Carlisle shows me more variations to the basics. I take to it easily. He is an expert dancer, and I am an elegant one, but together we are absolutely magical. I could imagine that I am flying. My dress billows out from me, and we move so quickly, so gracefully on the balls of my feet, that I rarely touch the ground. He twirls me, and, with every step that does not end in disaster, I trust him more. The wishes that danced around my heart feel foolish now. Because to wish is to dance. But to dance, to _truly _dance, is to fly.

"We should finish strong," Carlisle suggests. Our hands fly upwards as I swivel first away from him and then into his catch.

"The song is almost over. Would you like to finish with a lunge?"

"Lunge?"

"I'll swing you into a cradle, rock-step, and then lunge."

The music flourishes again. I can tell that this dance is coming to a close; I want to make the most of it. He is right. I can feel dark, jealous eyes burn on me as I share a second dance with Carlisle. "Right leg back, left leg as far forwards as you can go. Point your left toe and keep it on the ground. Are you flexible in your back?"

"A bit," I say. "Yes, yes I am." Truthfully, I have no idea. I hope that this part is

"Alright. Hold my right hand with your left." He squeezes my right hand once and twirls me again, right on the upbeat. "Reach your right hand as far around your body, across your chest, as you can. And lean backwards, as far as possible. I _shall_ catch you, trust me. Like in the cradle, I'll swing you into it." At that moment, he pulls me into a cradle, allowing me to feel it one last time before our finale.

"So... you'll swing me out of this," I acknowledge, trying to envision it. This is no easy feat.

"At the very end, I want you to swing out, and then back in. Slide on the floor if you can. I'll do the rest," he promises.

"Can we practice?"

"No, this is the final part of the music." Carlisle gives my arm a gentle tug, and I fly outwards, letting my arm unravel from his and reach back as far as I can. I stretch backwards twice, leaping on the balls of my feet, and then he sends me into several swivels in a row. "And... now."

Carlisle pulls me into a tight cradle. "One."

"Two," I add, breathing heavily.

"Three." He tugs on my hand, like unravelling a ball of yarn, and I spin out with force; for a moment, I think I will let go of his other hand. His grip is trustworthy, tight. My heart throbs with a host of uncertainty, and I find my stare riveted on the ground. In the chaos about to ensue, I catch a glimpse of his eyes. He stares at me intently, a smile flickering on his face. It is a challenge, a dare to be undaunted. I beam in reply. With a yank, he draws me back into his arms. He catches my left hand and I spin it over my head, onto and my chest. I slide my right leg backwards, my left one forwards, my toe a fulcrum on the floor. Taking a final leap of faith, I melt backwards into his arms.

* * *

**And... cut. That's a wrap. I think. What do you think? **

**Technically speaking, that dance wasn't considered "proper"********at upper-class parties until 1913, and the song I envisioned them dancing to wasn't even written until 1926. As for the dance, Dr. Harris probably wouldn't care, and this is set near the end of 1911. The music, however, is inexcusable. Can anyone guess the dance? **

**Well, that's all for today, folks. I'll see you later. Review? It's always, always appreciated.**


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